


A Period of Adjustment

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones (Movies), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Living on your own for years can make for a difficult adjustment after marriage.
Relationships: Mark Darcy/Bridget Jones
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	1. Adjusting to Her

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired in part by two friends in their 40s who were getting married in June 2019, just before I started writing this. They'd been together for eleven years but had deliberately maintained separate homes in two cities about 1.5 hours apart, because they kept saying that they know they're so set in their ways that they would be difficult to live with. They had begun the process of consolidating shortly after the wedding, and I am sure it was not easy for either of them. (There's more to their story, but I'll just leave it at that.)
> 
> * * *
> 
> As I mentioned on Twitter recently, regarding the name of Mark's first wife: I'm going to quote myself from the beginning of [The Journal of Mark Darcy, Esq.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13500610) (originally posted in December 2005 on FFnet), in which I wrote in the notes: "I found the first name of ex-wife (Tamiko) from another piece of fanfic whose author claims it is movie-canon." Unfortunately, I did not apparently record who this author was, and internet searches have turned up nothing. (If you happen to know, I'd be super grateful.) 
> 
> **However** , as much as it amuses me that so many other authors have taken to using it, too, Helen Fielding has admitted that she never thought of a name for Mark's first wife (Source: [Lauren Bravo talks to Helen Fielding](https://www.facebook.com/thepooluk/videos/1393197880761680/) (Facebook video from about May of 2017, though it seems to now be deleted)). So it's _not_ canon. _sadface_ However, as you'll note, I'm still using it…
> 
> * * *
> 
> I know Mark's house in BJB appears to be a different one than in EOR, but we know nothing about where it is or anything about what it looks like on the inside. So I'm operating inside the house as if we're pretty much still in Holland Park.

Mark Darcy knew that his new life would take some getting used to. 

Since leaving the dormitories in university, he had not lived with another human being for any appreciable amount of time. His first wife, Tamiko, had not moved in until they'd married, and was gone within a fortnight. His second wife, Camilla, had stayed in his home when she was in London, and he had stayed in hers when he was in The Hague, but the longest they'd cohabitated at a stretch was about three weeks, and even then, they were more like roommates than soulmates.

His third wife, Bridget… well, he knew things were going to be different from the start.

It had taken some time to get the housing situation sorted between them. He'd wanted to get his new family installed into the house as soon as possible; practically, it would make co-parenting their new baby that much easier, but more importantly, he had years that he needed to make up to Bridget, both when they were together and when they were apart. He knew he hadn't been the most attentive partner in the past, and wanted to start as soon as possible proving he was a changed man.

At first, just after the baby arrived, he had spent a good deal of time at her flat, but it wasn't long before he began to feel the logistical strain hearkening back to dating days, to hurried showers and sloppy shaves in the morning before court. 

As much as he liked her flat, he knew it was not practical for all of them to live there past the baby's first two years, and he thought she was well aware of that, too. The nursery was not a large room. There was also no place in the flat for him to establish a home office. A laptop on the kitchen table might have worked well for Bridget, but that was not feasible for the work he did, and particularly not feasible for all of the reference and law books to which he regularly needed access.

She seemed resistant to staying the night now and then at his house, which he understood; it meant conveying a good deal of baby gear back and forth. He offered to buy a second set—a crib, a high chair, changing tables, and so on—but she always demurred.

"We'll be living together soon enough," she'd say, "and then what will we do with the doubles?"

But it was months before that happened. And there were occasions on which he had to stay in his house. He always felt terrible the entire time he was apart from her, because he knew all of the feeding and nappy-changing during the night would leave her even more tired than usual.

Exhaustion was the primary reason she did not start to sort through the flat. He knew that the thought of packing was far too daunting. He had offered on more than one occasion to hire a comprehensive removal service, but she said that she couldn't bear some stranger disassembling nearly her entire adult life. There was another aspect at play, too: Bridget had been in her flat for decades, and he suspected a bit of subconscious mental resistance to packing up and leaving it. 

He didn't press her on the issue, but a couple of months after the birth, when it became clear that there was no forward motion underway, he suggested that perhaps she could just move enough of her stuff to the house to comfortably relocate. They could then establish routines as a family before rounding up friends to help with the flat, rather than have the pressure and guilt of all of the packing staring at her in the face all of the time.

There was the wedding to consider, too; he wanted her to be fully moved in well before the wedding. This way, they could better plan and pace themselves to meet that goal.

At last, she agreed.

Small victories.

………

"Mark?"

He set down his newspaper upon hearing his name echo faintly from elsewhere in the house.

"Yes, darling?" he called back.

Silence, then, "Come here, please?"

His first thought was that something was wrong with William. Hurriedly he went to the bedroom where the crib was, but while he was fast asleep in the darkened room and the baby monitor was on, Bridget was not there and the receiver was gone. He went downstairs to the next logical location first thing in the morning, and found her on a stool at the breakfast nook, looking forlorn, with the monitor receiver beside her.

"Is something the matter?"

She looked sheepish. "Don't laugh at me."

"Why would I do such a thing?"

She pursed her lips. "I can't find the muesli."

He smiled, thinking of a time when she teased him mercilessly for not being able to find anything in his own kitchen. Honestly, he still wasn't good at finding things in there, but he was assuredly better at it than she was.

He went over to the pantry and pulled out the box.

"Or the bowls."

At this he went to the cupboard and found the bowls on the second go.

"How about a spoon?" he offered. "Need one?"

She nodded.

He pulled the flatware drawer out—which was rather camouflaged, he had to admit—and got one out for her, setting it down. "You can find the milk, right?"

She nodded. "I feel like an idiot."

"You've been here three days," he said, reaching to wrap his arm around her shoulder, planting a kiss on her temple. "Look at how long it took me to get the hang of it—I still struggle with it." At her smile, he added, "We could get some sticky notes and label all of the doors, if it'd help."

She laughed a little and playfully poked at him. But then she sighed.

"I nearly scalded myself in the shower," she said. At his assuredly horrified look, she amended, "Okay, I'm exaggerating. But honestly, the water controls are so weird."

Reassuringly, he ran his hand up and down her forearm. "They're just different than you're used to. You'll figure it out."

She was very quiet, until finally she said, "I know."

He turned the stool ninety degrees, so that she was facing him. "Bridget, look at me."

She raised her gaze at this gentle request.

"Would you like me to make your coffee?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

He smiled, then lowered his head to plant a kiss on her lips.

He went over to switch on the kettle then spooned some ground coffee into the French press; out of the corner of his eye, he saw her get up from the stool. Shortly after that, he heard her curse lightly under her breath. He turned and found her staring into a closet filled with cleaning supplies.

"What are you looking for?" he asked.

"I wanted the Choco Snaps instead."

"Ah."

"In my defence," she said, "the pantry door looks exactly the same as this one."

"One more door to the right," he said, trying not to laugh.

………

She had a job waiting for her with the _Hard News_ team when she was ready to come back—and now that Alice Peabody was gone, Richard Finch was keen to get Bridget back—but she had every intention of taking the entire amount of maternity leave to which she was entitled. Not that she needed to work—Mark had done some very sound financial planning, which would care for all of them well into the future—but he knew that she loved what she did, and wanted to make her own mark on the world. Becoming a mother or a wife did not erase her identity as a person in her own right.

Mark had taken time off, too. The partners in chambers had encouraged him to take whatever time he needed, but knew he had to go back sooner than she did. He had reduced his caseload, but the remaining cases would have taken too much time before their respective court dates to bring a new barrister up to speed.

His only regret about his relationship with her is that he hadn't thought to move her in sooner. _Years_ sooner. The time they had spent together—him, her, and now the baby—since she had moved in had brought him the greatest happiness he'd ever known. Going to bed with her every night, spooned up in the darkness in warmth and comfort; waking up in the morning to find her lovingly watching him sleep, as was her habit; soothing her insecurities about being a crap mother when she was anything but, and her giving him the same reassurance when he experienced his own self-doubt; gaining the practical experience of bathing, feeding, changing nappies, after reading so many parenting books; helping to clean up the foaming suds when the wrong soap had made it into the dishwasher, and getting her to laugh while they did it. All of it fulfilled him in a way that, once upon a time, his work had done.

He felt more connected to her than ever, and to his son as well.

………

Once little William got to the point where he could entertain himself in his playpen, they enlisted the help of friends; not all at once, but in teams, a few hours in the afternoons during the week and on the weekends. She gave away most of her furniture to friends or through the internet, or donated it charity. She listed the flat with an estate agent, which he thought she would never get around to doing, and they had an offer within a week. She cried for hours that night; he did his best to console her.

"It's not silly, is it?" she said, her eyes glossy with her tears.

"Of course it isn't, darling."

"I mean, _obviously_ , it's not regret," she said quickly. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else than here with you. But I was there so long… it feels like I'm amputating a limb."

He raised a hand to cup her face, brushing away the tears with his thumb. "I completely understand," he said with a warm smile. "I'll miss it too."

"Will you?"

"Of course," he said. "I spent my first good night with you in that flat."

"Well, except for the fight."

He chuckled, pulling her close. "Let's not bring that up," he murmured into her hair.

………

Two months before their wedding date, once all of her remaining possessions were packed and labelled, and with the pending closing of the sale of the flat, the hired movers brought it all to the house—to their _home_ —taking each box to its respective room at Bridget's and Mark's direction. With the boxes scattered in smaller piles amongst the various rooms, the task of unpacking them didn't seem nearly so intimidating.

Once the movers were gone and he was alone with her, he thought she might start to cry again, but she didn't. He suspected it was due to the comfort level of living in the house now. She had mastered the kitchen, the shower temperature controls, and hogging the king-sized bed. She thought of it now as home.

They ordered a pizza and opened the wine—moderation in all things—and with the baby monitor turned on, they settled in front of the fireplace on the sofa first to eat, then to snog like a pair of teenagers until they took the baby monitor and themselves back to the bedroom.

It felt like they were truly beginning a new chapter.

………

While it was to be his third wedding, it was her first, and if he had anything to say about it, it'd be her only one. He was loath to deny her anything she wanted to make the day as special as possible; he colluded with her father to contribute to the cost that went beyond their budget, because he didn't want to wound her mother's pride, either. Fortunately, her requests were not much beyond the essentials: dress, shoes, ring, venue, music. Family. Friends. And champagne; lots of it.

And though it was to be his third wedding, nothing about the first two could be considered romantic. The first had been done in a registrar's office with two witnesses: Daniel Cleaver and a friend of Tamiko's who Mark had quickly suspected didn't actually understand English. For his wedding with Camilla, the witnesses weren't even anyone he knew. In both of those cases, though, he could hardly have ever been called 'in love' with either woman. In that sense, this was his first wedding, and he wanted it to be memorable, and yes, romantic.

He also engaged a wedding planner early on, because having a newborn and moving house / selling her flat were occupying their time enough. She had protested at first, saying that it made her a bad bride, but she came around soon enough.

Everything about day could not have been more perfect: the marquee was just as she'd wanted, in the garden of the most perfect venue they could have asked for. Even the weather had deigned to comply; sunny, clear cerulean skies. Beautiful.

Only one thing had made him uneasy. He had approached several groups during the course of the day, for which all conversation suddenly ceased as he drew nearer. He began to wonder if their guests had misgivings about the union, after all.

It was Bridget who pulled him aside with a sombre expression to explain at last.

"What is it?"

"The timing on this couldn't be worse," she began cryptically. "You know, our wedding day and all. But you're going to find out anyway; it's all over the papers." She drew her lower lip between her teeth; he waited to hear what she had to say. "It's Daniel Cleaver. He's turned up alive."

At first he was sure he had misheard. It was Daniel's memorial service almost two years previous that had brought her back into his life again. He wasn't sure how he felt, exactly; he was concerned at how Daniel's existence in London again might affect his brand new marriage. After all, after the end of his first marriage at Daniel's hand, he'd almost lost Bridget to Daniel more than once: on her birthday those many years ago; in Thailand; after the awards show he had so thoughtlessly missed. Something Daniel had once said in a fountain at the Serpentine also echoed in Mark's mind: _You know what, mate? If you're so obsessed with Bridget Jones, why don't you just marry her? 'Cause then she'd definitely shag me._

He now understood the hushed discussions at his approach, and her glum tone in telling him the news.

At the same time, though… he was glad that his former friend was not dead. Actually, _honestly_ glad. And the happiness that he felt surprised him more than just a little.

At last, he said, his voice not quite his own, "Alive? Daniel?"

She nodded. "Leave it to Daniel to come back from the dead, right?"

All he or anyone had known was that his plane had gone down in the Australian outback; a body had never been found, for what were now obvious reasons. "How?"

"He turned up in a pub in a town called Kal… Kalgoolie… shit, I don't remember the name, but it's something like a seven hour drive from Perth," she began. "Apparently he walked away unscathed from the crash, and has been living with an Aboriginal tribe from then to now." She then placed a hand on his arm. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "A little conflicted, if I'm honest."

She frowned a little in sympathy. "My poor Mark," she said. "You know, of course, that this changes nothing with you and me. I'm all yours. Lock, stock, barrel."

He felt a little at a loss for words that this was the thing she thought of first. That she knew that his past history with Daniel would be on his mind. He offered a smile, then, as she held out her arms, he accepted the offer of an embrace.

"Maybe," she said quietly, "you should think of this as the second chance most people don't get. You were friends once. You cared enough to go to the memorial. Maybe you could reach out. Surely a year in the outback changes a man."

Mark had to concede the point. 

She drew back, smiling. "Today's a happy day. Let's consider this a good omen, all right?"

He couldn't help smiling, too. "All right," he said.

………

Things almost seemed too quiet after the maelstrom that was William's birth, the move, and the wedding. As much as he had been looking forward to the wedding, he was almost looking forward more to their honeymoon, if for no other reason than to sit still for more than ten minutes. Peace and quiet. To relax.

"We don't have to be anywhere," Bridget said, almost awestruck, as the late morning light slotted through a crack in the drapes; she rested comfortably in the crook of his arm.

Mark supplied, "Don't have to do anything."

"Except perhaps breakfast," Bridget said. He felt a soft chuckle move her body slightly. "Or me." She started giggling. 

"We don't have to do anything we don't want to do, nothing difficult or irritating," he clarified, tightening his arm around her shoulder, planting a kiss into her hair, running his fingers in a lazy arc along her upper arm. 

"I wonder how William's doing," Bridget said idly. He was staying with Tom and Eduardo for the duration of the honeymoon—the weekend through Tuesday—and it was the longest they had been apart from him.

"I'm sure he's fine," murmured Mark, closing his eyes.

"I'm sure he is, too," she replied. "But I still wonder."

"I know you do. That's why you're a terrific mum."

"Am I?" she asked, in apparent seriousness. "You're not just saying that because I haven't left him in a shop yet?"

"I think I'm being perfectly unbiased," he said. "You make mistakes. We both do. But we're willing to learn, and most importantly, his life is full of love. Our love for him, and our love for each other."

She didn't say anything in response. He looked at her again; when he said her name, she turned her face to him. Her eyes were misty, but she was smiling. "You always claim to not be good with emotional declarations," she said, "but you always manage to hit the mark, as it were." She brought a hand up to gently touch his face. "I've noticed, by the way." He didn't ask, because he knew she would explain; she paused a moment before she did. "I've noticed you're trying. You're _here_. And that means the world to me. You have no idea."

He had some idea. He had known from the start that the stakes were much higher this time around: not only did he risk hurting Bridget, but their son. Not only was she his world, but William was, too. Bridget had never stopped loving Mark, just as he had never stopped loving her; her love was probably more than he deserved after how he had left her so alone, so Mark had done his best to earn that love. He'd had no expectation of a reward for being the best partner he could be, but he was glad she had noticed, all the same.

He smiled, leaned towards her, and gave her a kiss.

………

It wasn't until after they were married, after the honeymoon, and fully settled into a more normal routine, that he realised exactly how hard it was going to be to adjust. The big things were wonderful; all of the priceless, precious daily activities that made his life so much more fulfilling than it ever had been. It was the little things that were getting to him, though. Leaving the cap off of the toothpaste, squeezing from the middle, leaving the tube on the side of the sink. That sort of thing.

He suspected his habits were getting to her, too. He already knew that folding his boxers was one that she found peculiar. But he liked his books in an alphabetical order, and her expression was one of disbelief when he pointed out that she had re-shelved one by the colour of the spine, instead. 

These little things were what had caused him to reflect on his long, long period of essentially solitary living. He knew these minor irritations were a small price to pay in the end, but sometimes, it really tried his patience.

Like now.

He always appreciated when she made something to eat for them; she had come a long way since whipped marmalade and blue soup. What he did not appreciate, for example, was not fully tightening the cap on the bottle of orange juice, so that when he went to shake it before pouring another glass—

"Bridget!" he erupted.

She came running in, and when she saw him, her look of fear was quickly replaced with one of disguised amusement before bringing a hand up to cover her mouth: the right side of his upper half—hair, face, shirt, arm—was saturated with orange juice.

"Oh no," came her muffled words.

"Indeed, Bridget, 'oh no,'" he said. "Now we are not only almost out of orange juice, but I have to shower and dress all over again. Good thing I'm not due in court."

"Sorry," she said.

"Please, _please_ , tighten the lid all the way," he said.

"I know," she said.

"I know you know," he said testily. "But you're still not actually doing it."

"I _said_ I was sorry."

He didn't want to get caught up in this apology loop, so he just set down the almost-empty juice container and said, "I need to change out of this."

He was just finishing up in the shower when he heard her come in. "You're not truly angry with me, are you?"

He opened the shower stall door to see her standing there, looking a bit sad. Looking a bit like she was sure he might actually be angry. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "Of course not, darling," he said, grabbing a towel and wrapping it about his waist. 

"Oh, good," she said. "It's just I… wanted to make a suggestion."

"Oh?"

"I'm trying, Mark, I am, but it might take a bit," she said. "A lot of habits to undo, living on my own for so long. For this particular bad habit… can you please just double-check that I've set on the lid properly, before you vigorously shake orange juice all over yourself again?"

At this he smiled, then began to laugh, reaching to take her into his arms. Foolish to have spent so much time contemplating how hard it would be for him to adjust to another person, and fail to consciously consider she would be doing the same. "I think that's a reasonable request," he said as he closed his eyes, pressed a kiss into her temple. "I'm sorry for shouting before."

"It's all right," she said. "I imagine you were pretty much taken by surprise." 

"I suppose it probably did look pretty funny," he said. "I imagine that if William had seen me, he would have laughed, too."

She chuckled. "I tried not to laugh."

"I noticed."


	2. Adjusting to Him

Speaking of adjustments, another one was awaiting them shortly after. After putting William down for a nap—a difficult task with a little boy who fought sleep every step of the way—they were in the kitchen prepping for dinner when the doorbell went off. 

They looked to each other; Mark asked, "Are you expecting anyone?"

She shook her head. "I assume you're not, either," she said. "Shall we see who's here before the doorbell wakes Mr Fussy Pants?"

Mark chuckled. "I'll go."

He approached the door; he could see an outline of a figure through the frosted glass. Mark's step slowed; something seemed familiar about the silhouette.

"Who's there," Mark said.

"A ghost from the past."

Son of a bitch.

Mark opened the door to see Daniel Cleaver standing there. His light brown hair had mostly gone white-blond, and his complexion had gone quite tanned in the outback sun. He looked as lean and wiry as ever, though his expression was serious, one of hesitancy. 

Mark decided to break the ice by reaching a hand out for a shake… then shocking Daniel by pulling him into a hug.

"It is surprisingly good to see you," Mark said quietly.

Daniel pulled back, though he was now grinning. "Goddammit, Darcy, I thought you were going to throttle me. Perhaps I should rise from the dead more often."

Mark found himself smiling, too. 

"Though honestly," Daniel continued, closing the front door behind himself, "I didn't think it would be _this_ easy. I thought there was going to be a bit more of a fight. Literally." 

"I've been thinking about this ever since I heard the news," Mark said. "It was actually on our wedding day."

"Ah, yes," Daniel said. "I heard from my mum. Congratulations on all counts."

"Thank you," Mark said. "It just became so starkly clear to me when I realised I was _happy_ to hear you'd turned up. I couldn't deny I was happy. And I knew what that meant."

"A second chance," Daniel said, echoing Bridget's thoughts on the day.

"Yes," Mark said. Sheepishly, he continued, "I was going to call you when we got back from our honeymoon, but… I wasn't sure what to say."

"I'm not sure what I would have said, but for my mum." Daniel paused; his eyes looked a bit misty. "She told me… that you had actually come to my memorial service. Well, that you both had, but _you_ in particular turning up, that spoke volumes to me. That deep down inside, you _did_ still care, at least a little bit. And I'd be a fool not to reach out to try to make amends."

"Daniel!"

With surprising speed, Bridget scaled the stairs up from the lower level, then ran over to Daniel, launching into a big, tight hug that nearly knocked the man over.

"Hello, Jones," Daniel said, meeting Mark's gaze, smiling. "Or is it 'Darcy' now, too?"

"Let's go with 'Jones' to avoid confusion," she said, drawing away. She screwed up her features, as if deep in thought. "You look like a beachcomber."

Daniel burst out with a laugh. "Appalling lack of sun cream out there in the bush," he said, "though I might well stay with this hair colour. Does an admirable job at hiding the grey."

She laughed lightly. "Oh, why don't you stay for dinner?" she asked suddenly. "Then you can tell us what the hell happened."

Daniel looked to Mark. "You sure you don't mind?" he asked.

"Of course not," Mark said. "How better to get reacquainted?"

Daniel's face betrayed another small smile. It was not one of joy, precisely, since he would not have tried to suppress a happy smile; Mark suspected that Daniel was touched on an emotional level to which Daniel was uncomfortable admitting.

"Please tell me you're not making soup, Jones," Daniel said wryly.

In response, she lightly punched his upper arm, a smile playing upon her lips.

Dinner was not a complicated matter—pasta with tomato sauce and heaps of parmesan cheese. Mark opened a bottle of red that he had been saving for a special occasion; if this didn't qualify, what did?

"So," Bridget said, her laden fork aloft in mid-air. "Let's hear it."

Daniel paused to sip at his wine. "All was going swimmingly until the wing came off."

"I'm sorry," Bridget interrupted, "the wing _came off_?" 

Daniel nodded. "One moment, I'm in the cockpit flying along, and the next, the wing's gone, my seat's coasting through the sky on its own, with me still in it. Headfirst into the trees."

"You were in the cockpit?" Bridget asked. "When in bloody hell did you learn to fly?"

Daniel said with a smirk, "I am a mystery wrapped in an enigma."

"Why were you in Australia?" Mark asked.

"I told my mum and a few friends that I was going there to find myself, or some such nonsense," he said, then scoffed. "Well, mission accomplished. Had plenty of time for that."

"So what happened next?" Bridget asked.

"I don't remember anything after the trees rushing at me at top speed, until I came to after the sun had gone down. Unstrapped myself from the seat and bloody walked away with nothing more a bit of a backache and a cut on my arm. Well. A bit disorientated, too, truth be told. Since it was already dark, I decided to say put for the night. Desperately wanted a drink and a smoke." 

He paused to take a bite, which gave Bridget a chance to ask, "So you _weren't_ very injured? Why did it take you so long to get back to England?"

"They found the black box pretty quickly," Mark added. "How is it they didn't find _you_?"

"Both _excellent_ questions," he said. "In good time." He sipped on the wine again. "I woke when the sun started to come up, and I started to walk. Let me tell you, I was bloody grateful for it being autumn down there—if it'd been the dead of summer, I would've been done for. I walked until I found some water, which fortunately wasn't too long. Looking at a map now, I got pretty lucky to have landed near a lake. On the lake I found a man tending his fish trap. I must have looked like total arse, because he dropped what he was doing and pulled me along, looking very concerned and speaking too rapidly for me to understand. He took me back to his community."

"Which community was this?"

Daniel shook his head. "Not saying, other than to say it was hundreds of kilometres from Kalgoorlie. They were very kind to me, and I'm not going to repay their kindness with unwanted publicity," he said. "They just want to live their lives in the ways of their ancestors."

_Fair enough_ , thought Mark.

"Though honestly, I _was_ grateful they spoke English," Daniel added. "I took a few days to rest and recover—not so much physically, but mentally. The sense of peace and the quiet that enveloped me in that environment was like nothing I'd found before. I'd've thought it'd be too quiet, not busy enough after years in London, but I was wrong." He paused. "I liked it. As soon as I could convince them I was all right, they set me to working in the community. One day blended into the next… this is going to sound hard to believe, but I lost track of the days. _Actually_ lost track of them. I stopped looking at a calendar. Stopped checking a mobile. Didn't care about fashion or pop culture or software updates or publishing deadlines. And then suddenly, reality comes crashing in when someone comes rolling into town all the way from Perth and I realize two years have gone by. Two bloody years! Then I think about my mum and everyone back home, and I realise I've got to get home. So I get my things together and get the stranger to take me out to where I was reported to turned up, the pub outside of Kalgoorlie, far from where I'd been." Daniel held up both hands. "And voilà. Here I am."

After that, Mark didn't quite know what to say. He couldn't fathom how that much time could pass without realising it, but he'd never experienced the kind of trauma that comes with crashing in a plane and walking away.

"Wow," Bridget said, resting her chin on her closed hand, as her elbow rested on the table. "How did you get back here? Did you still have your passport with you?"

"I had my whole bag with me from the plane," he said, "except for my passport. We were reunited after I turned up, sort of. It was found in the plane and the authorities had sent it back to my mum. Coordinating with the British Embassy was enough to get me back."

Realising he'd been thought dead for so long, Mark asked, "Where are you living?"

"Same flat," he said. "My mum refused to sell my flat and my things until she had more definitive proof of my demise. Good thing, that."

It was then that the baby monitor, which sat at Bridget's side, erupted with the sound of baby William calling out loudly for his mama.

Bridget pushed back from the table. "Let me go see what's the matter."

As he watched her walk away, Mark thought about taking Daniel up to meet William, but thought perhaps bedtime wasn't the best time to introduce him to a new person. He reached and sipped his wine. 

"Hey," said Daniel quietly. Mark looked to him. "While she's up there, there's something I wanted to get cleared up and out of the way, so you don't have to wonder."

Mark furrowed his brow. "Oh?" 

"The Tate. I picked her up, but it was only as a friend. I swear."

Mark knew exactly about what Daniel was talking: the British Daytime Television Awards, 2010. Mark had failed her by not showing up to support her in her win for best producer, but his jealousy had been aggravated when he had arrived late… just in time to see her climbing into Daniel's BMW. The combination of these things had served as a catalyst to their split; he had accused her of going back to Daniel, just as she had accused him of not trusting her or being a supportive partner. In retrospect, he knew she'd been right.

Daniel continued: "You believe me, I hope."

Mark's attention snapped back to the present. "Yes," he said, without hesitation. "My own insecurities fuelled my suspicion n, but I've come to see how foolish I'd been."

Daniel's look of worry vanished in a moment, and he smiled. "Good," he said, then said it again as he nodded. "Good."

The sound of footfalls on the stairs coincided perfectly with the end of the conversation, and the smile that lit Daniel's face told Mark before he'd even turned that she'd brought the baby back downstairs with her. Daniel stood to meet William, who looked understandably wary.

"William," said Bridget, "meet your Uncle Daniel."

At the moniker, Mark swore that Daniel's features softened even further. "Well, hello, young man," Daniel said.

"Would you like to hold him?" Bridget offered.

"I would, but I'm not sure he wants to be held by me," he quipped.

"You're just new to him, but we're here," Bridget said. "He'll be fine."

At this Daniel opened his arms to accept him; William seemed hesitant only for a moment, but as Daniel smiled at him, William smiled too, then laughed and reached for Daniel's ear.

"Just as I'd always suspected," Daniel said. "The two of you make ridiculously adorable babies."

Mark smiled and could only cast his gaze towards his wife. "I give full credit there to Bridget."

"Nonsense," she said, smiling at him in return.

"Get a room," quipped Daniel, shifting William in his arms, who giggled at the jostling. "See? He agrees with me. I think little Billy here and I are going to be best buddies."

Inwardly, Mark cringed. "We haven't really been calling him that."

Daniel scoffed. "William is a _man's_ name, not a baby's," he retorted. "Be thankful I didn't call him 'Willy'."

This elicited a chuckle from Bridget, who looked immediately contrite when she realised Mark was still watching her. Mark smiled to let her know that it was all right if she found that amusing—he did too.

"I just remembered," said Daniel, as he handed William back to his mother, "I have something for you." At Mark's undoubtedly confused look, he explained, "I have a wedding gift for the both of you, and a belated birthday gift for the sprog, but I figured I'd leave it in the car until I was sure you weren't going to sock me in the nose."

"You really didn't have to," Bridget said, "but thank you."

Daniel was back in just a few minutes with a tote bag; out of the top of this bag hung the top half of a rather plush stuffed rabbit. "Despite what you may think, the bunny's for the kid." He pulled out the rabbit, which seemed to be about as large as William was. William, for his part, looked enthralled as Daniel held it close, then held out his arms so that he could grasp on to it.

"Thank you," Bridget said with a grin.

"I know what you're thinking," said Daniel, "and you'll be grateful to know that your gift is not, in fact, rabbit-related."

"That's a relief," Mark said drolly.

"Mark, go ahead, open it," said Bridget, who still held her son and his new stuffed rabbit.

Instead, Mark reached to take the armful of child and toy, and said, "I know how much you like opening gifts." Her beaming smile was a reward all on its own.

Bridget reached into the bag, pulled out some tissue paper, then pulled out a small box trimmed with decorative paper and ribbons. She shot her gaze towards Daniel, her expression questioning, then undid the ribbon and tore at the edge of the paper.

The box beneath was plain white, taller than it was wide, no taller than Bridget's forearm. She slipped a fingernail in to break the round gold sticker sealing the opening edge, then lifted the lid of the box. She pulled out some paper packing material, then took in a sharp breath.

She lifted the gift out of the box, and as Mark saw it, he was left breathless, too. It was a small terracotta statue—or rather, a fragment of a statue—hearkening back to those of ancient times. A card accompanied the statue, declaring a certification of authenticity as a reproduction of an original. The partial figures were embraced and kissing. One of the figures had wings; the other one had probably had wings, too, but they'd been broken.

"I picked that up from a museum in Crete," Daniel said. "Spent a few days there on my trek home from Australia. It's Eros and Psyche. I seem to recall a rather glorious statue of Eros somewhat close to your flat, Jones. I thought it'd be perfect for your long-overdue union."

To Mark's surprise, tears flooded his wife's eyes and gathered in his own. "Daniel, it's beautiful," she said, gingerly setting the statue down, then reaching to embrace him. "Thank you so much."

"Just… put it somewhere that Billy can't get to it," he said, his usual deflection with humour firmly in place, as Bridget relinquished the embrace.

"We'll be sure to," said Mark. "It really is perfect."

"Ooh, we should have a toast," Bridget said suddenly. 

"We should put this child back to bed," Mark said.

"Go do that," Bridget said, "and I'll pull out one of the bottles of champagne from the wedding."

Fortunately, little William had been tuckered out by all of the excitement, and went back to sleep in a matter of moments. The new bunny was left to rest on the rocking chair. As Mark returned downstairs, Daniel opened the bottle with a loud pop. Bridget stood to the side with her fingers in her ears.

"I couldn't find the flutes," said Bridget. "Figured you would know."

Mark did in fact know, and went to pull out three. Daniel did the pouring. Mark felt like he should do the toasting. He had no idea what he would say until he started to say it.

"Here's to the start of a new chapter," he said, "to renewed friendships and strengthened bonds. We have spent too long estranged, my friend, and today, that ends. If for no other reason, my son needs a fun uncle."

Mark swore that Daniel was on the verge of tears. He raised his flute, too, and touched it to Mark's. "Hear, hear," he said, then cleared his throat; his usual humour surfaced. "Looking forward to taking him for a pint."

"Many years from now," said Bridget.

"Of course," said Daniel.

Mark added, "Though it's only fair to point out that you started swilling from a wine bottle at age four, darling."

At this, Daniel began laughing. "That must have been a sight."

"You can see for yourself." Mark reached into his pocket and produced his mobile phone. 

Bridget explained in a resigned tone, "He's put it on his mobile."

Mark could not help noticing how amused Daniel looked—and how genuine his chuckle was—as he watched the video from years ago, with Bridget, aged four, running around like a holy terror, shoving cake into her mouth, and apparently glugging wine. At the point in the video where young Bridget smacked a kiss on the back of Mark's neck, and Mark took her hand, Daniel actually said, "Aww. I wish I'd seen this years ago. I would have conceded immediately." Daniel smiled, and it was an easy, genuine smile. "And on that note, it's best I bid you goodnight. I know how badly new parents need sleep."

Mark rose to his feet. "Not so new, but I won't argue the point," he said. With a smile, he added, "Let's do this again soon, Vivian."

Daniel stepped forward and embraced his friend. "I'll hold you to that, Fitzwilliam," he said. "We can drive Jones here mad with the football."

……… 

"What a good night."

"A very good night."

This, with a soft sigh as they curled up to each other in their darkened bedroom. Mark felt reassured by the weight of her resting upon his chest, her fingers drawing lazy arcs upon his shoulder. He drew deep breaths, felt himself closer and closer to drifting to sleep—

"We've had a lot of upheaval and change in the last year," she continued, bringing him back to wakefulness. "It's been difficult in many ways, but so worth it."

He thought of the small irritations and the absolute non-stop busy state that had only just recently returned to something approaching normal. "Many adjustments to have made," he murmured. "But this only proves that the need to adjust isn't always bad."

### The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   * [The BJB script](http://bridgetarchive.altervista.org/bjb_script.htm).
>   * According to the newspaper at the end of the film, Daniel's plane went down just outside of Kalgoorlie, Western Australia.
>   * According to [this page](https://www.express.co.uk/entertainment/films/972492/Movie-weddings-location-wedding-Love-Actually-Notting-Hill-Four-Weddings-and-Funeral), the church (interior) at which they get married is St Lawrence Church, West Wycombe Hill, Church Lane, High Wycombe. Not sure what the exterior is.
>   * [Eros and Psyche](https://museumofclassicalantiquities.tumblr.com/post/52711974153/eros-and-psyche-1st-century-bce-from-pella), 1st Century BCE, Pella, Macedonia: "The myth of Eros and Psyche is a story of a mortal woman who is loved by a Greek god and thereby granted immortality. … In the context of wedding iconography the story was an allegory of the marriage of love and the soul as Eros was the god of physical love and Psyche symbolized the soul." (As a wedding gift, I got a reproduction that looks exactly like this one, with a similar Certification of Authenticity, from Crete.)
> 



End file.
